The Eldest and his best friend, E., wood-burned this sign for the backyard fence. I discovered it a few days ago.
Since there are no fewer than five painted wooden birdhouses in our backyard, I take it the sign refers to the bird houses.
"Uh, sure mom," responds the Eldest when I ask about the sign. The tenor in his voice suggests there are other things which matter more than questions about signs posted to fences.
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The holiday mantle decorations are packed and put away for next year. Things feel normal again, now that my armless wood statue girl is back in her place beneath the antlers.
"Why do you love that thing so much?" my husband asked earlier in our marriage. At the time, I didn't have an answer but today the shadow of a reason emerges. I like her because she's not smiling and because she looks as if she's cut from bone.
A statue carved from bone.... What if death was acknowledged by carving a statue of the each person from their large leg bone? Imagine all the space we'd save only one bone from our bodies was preserved and the rest was donated to hospitals and organ banks.
The Eldest has been helping Gnome make a paper craft village from the book given to her by Santa this year. Gnome expressed a desire to see her village "grow up" on the mantle.
Each house has its own set of residents, including pets. Dogs get their own houses but cats are expected to live indoors with their owners.
And here is the book by Delphine Doreau, My Town: A Little World For You To Build. If you aren't sure the book is worthwhile, download a few of Delphine's freebies (posted below) and see if your appetite changes.
Delphine Doreau's Generous Freebies
Free sample advent calendar house printable
Baby bear wreath printable
Surprise origami wrap printable
Angel ornaments printable
Mini owl paper dolls printable
3-D cuboctahedron puzzle printable
Delphine's dollhouse giftbox printable
Madame Sapin 3-d printable
Black and white matrioshka paper dolls printable
Colorful matrioshka paper dolls printable
Delphine's adorable hanging birdhouse printable
3-D polyhedron ornament printable
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Bunicu uses plaster to prepare the volcano as Prophet watches. He explains that plaster won't get sticky until you add water and then mold the wet plaster into a shape.
There are old black and white photographs from Romania-- photos from my baby days-- where I lay naked in the crook of his arm after a bath. I recognize the hands and how little they have changed-- still big enough to move mountains and gentle enough to soothe nightmares.
I only notice the cobwebs on the windows in retrospect-- when I see a photo, for example.
The plaster is dry-- and the volcano simulation is ready to go. "Everybody outside," Bunicu declares. The fastidious metallurgist within seeks extra cardboard just in case this volcano gets wild.
"Oooooh," admires the Eldest in his best faux-Romanian accent.
I try not to mention what strikes me at first glance-- hey, that's a really little volcano. The captive audience awaits an explosion.
Soon, the Professor is doing what he does best-- pontificating about chemical processes and molecular physics. It's my favorite part, if only because it brings back childhood memories of dinner.
In his hand circles a bottle of citric acid mixed with red food dye. This citric acid will be key to the volanic eruption.
"Hey," offers the Eldest, "you know vinegar works just as well-- maybe even better-- than citric acid."
"Bah," says the Professor.
The Professor (a.k.a. Bunicu) begins to squirt the citric acid solution into the tube which runs under and up the small plaster volcano.
A small trickle of red frothy liquid spittles up from the top of the volcanic cone.
"Oh no!" yells Gnome. "It's not working!"
The Professor continues his patient infusion. Finally, overhearing the Gnome's huffing and puffing, he asks what isn't working.
"The volcano!" shouts Gnome. "The volcano's not 'splodin'."
"I'll be right back"- and the Eldest returns with a bottle of white vinegar procured from somewhere in the nether-regions of the kitchen cupboard.
As the Professor watches, the Eldest pours a capful over the volcano's top-- "so the baking soda will fizz."
When it fizzes and soaks the cardboard box, a satisfied smirk appears on Gnome's face. "Now it's splodin'," she tells us.
"What did she say?" the Professor asks patiently.
"Oh. She said thank you."
Did I say thank you, dad? For all the ways your hands still grace our lives. Thank you.
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Last night's torrential rains brought down branches and created new "creeks" in the woods behind our house. There's no time like the time after a big rainstorm watch watersheds in action.
S. and Prophet try to zip up their coats.
S. flashes a debonair grin while Prophet shows off her riot grrrrrin.
J. demonstrated a slight bit of jealousy when presented with the King's outrageous Zappa.
For every lovely moment in life, let there be green porta-potties in the background.
There was the seven square foot jagged rock with puddles in certain portions that captivated the kids. I don't know how many times the climbed the rock, teetering to and fro, looking like they might bust their heads, and then pooling all the energy to let out a passionate "yaaaaaar" and leap from the side of the rock onto the gravel below.
S. atop said gnarly rock.
Be still, my heart.
Little G. and his amazing, expressive eyebrows.
Little G. won't take no, maybe, or later for an answer. He follows his geist.
They are wild, unruly, wacky-yum-yum, and really cute to their parental units.
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Watching the last leaves change color and look like flames on the top of the grass.
Collecting the leaves where we find them and stitching them together with a needle and a long piece of embroidery floss, a hanging mobile collection of autumn leaves. Soon, the leaves will be too crinkly to withstand movement. Then we burn the mobile.
Going on picnics with a vat of Manna Grocery African Peanut soup..... because the cumin helps our sore throats.
Paying our respects to last year's holiday tree who resides in the woods behind our house. Don't ask me how his name became "Hairy" but that's the name by which the kids address him.
Welcoming Bunica from her long trip to Romania, where she voted in the presidential election and saw another little piece of history change for the better.
Hanging out with fantastic cousin Isla Alina, whose name still makes me want to cry a little when I say it in its entirety.
Wandering around the University of Alabama quad with dear old friends.
Playing dress up and then wrestling in high heels and fancy dresses. Because nothing says wrestle like sateen.
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Isla hung out with us as we made our first sunprint yesterday.
Prophet selected fallen leaves and arranged them atop the blue sunprint paper. At first, we laid the acrylic insert over the leaves and left Prophet's assemblage in the sun for seven minutes. When we checked to see how it was developing, we discovered it wasn't.
Bleached white and ready to get wet.
So, we removed the acrylic top and left the leaves exposed to the sun for five minutes, thinking maybe the autumn sun wasn't strong enough to develop the print. Sure enough, five minutes later, the sunprint paper had bleached to white and the light blue prints lay under the leaves.
My hand left its mark.
I raced to the kitchen and let cold water run over the print while Prophet counted out sixty whole seconds.
Then we raced into the den and laid the print to dry near the big front window. Prophet said she was pleased with the result but we needed to wait for it to be "totally dry" before we could "decide whether to like it or not". That struck me as an interesting point.
And here is the final, ethereal version.
MORE SUNPRINT FUN
Moire patterns with sunprints
Sunprint origami
Wrinkled sunprints
Haeckel’s Radiolarians Mobile
Sunscreen experiment with sunprints to measure effectiveness of different sunscreens
Record a magentic field by making a sunprint
Map the sun's path during a day
Darwin sunprint collages
Capture natural backyard shadows
Astronomy photography prints
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Given my fear of competition- the fear of winning, possibly displacing someone, giving others reason to resent me- it's awesome that Prophet can't hide her contempt at my non-competitive inclinations.
"I love playing," she assures me.
"Why?"
"Because I love winning." The words slide like raspberry jello from her tongue. "Don't you love winning, too?"
"Well, Prophet, it's complicated."
"Nope it's not. Winning is awesome." She looks convinced.
What else can I say except- "That's one way to look at it."
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This is a story about a happy Gnome- the kind of gnome that says, "My wish came true", after hanging out with horses for an afternoon.
It was Gnome that prodded us through the gates of the Keystone Stables, lit with the hope of horseback rides. And it was me, laying on my back on the gravel, my legs extending beneath the horses, who took these horse-face photos.
After deferring her desire for a few days, Gnome's insistence made it clear this was more than an expensive fancy but something she longed to do.
When she reported one morning having dreamed about riding horses all night, the song of the stables lured us straight into a fun (though pricey) adventure.
Gnome and Prophet pet the horses' noses and declare them to be "wet and maybe snotty".
The Eldest prepares to ride Tex.
Gnome gets excited watching her big brother mount his horse. She cheers once he's established in the saddle.
Brian shows the Eldest how to use the reigns and stirrups.
Tex gets frisky and tries to run noses with a nearby horse. Brian and the stable employees immediately warn the Eldest and other trail riders against allowing horses to rub noses.
The Eldest gives the impression of feeling safe and secure atop Tex, even after Tex stomps his feet and gives a little snort.
I helped get Gnome and Prophet situated on their ponies. We were warned not to run or allow them to bicker with one another. Prophet and her pony, Sage, somehow resembled one another in their nut-brown lankiness.
Prophet tries to get in the rhythm of Sage's walk- but it's hard for our most competitive little person to enjoy pure, unabashed leisure.
Gnome couldn't get enough of riding this pony named Stormy. "I never want to get off my pony," whispered Gnome when she overheard Prophet asking Bunica when the ride would end.
"Thanks Tex," says the Eldest, who is now a horse-trail riding enthusiast.
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Prophet and Mary climb the ramp after co-skating.
Why not wander around a park in Silverthorne and spend those last minutes of daylight surrounded by local chatter? Before you could say lickety-split, the Eldest made a playground friend.
The Eldest and his friend climbed rocks around the skatepark before daring one another to race through the ramps between skaters. I tried to warn them that watching out for little folks reduces the flow state of skating for the folks on boards.
Just as I was about to launch into my lecture, a nice girl wearing kneepads asked if the kids would like to try skating.
Mary takes Gnome for her first skating spree.
Having watched her skate for half-an-hour or so, I felt confident in her skills and abilities.
"Sure. Why not?" I replied.
Prophet couldn't get enough.
Mary told me about a national group in which female skaters teach young females how to skate. Meanwhile, Gnome and Prophet begged for "one more ride" and "one more try".
I'm so grateful to Mary for extending a hand, inviting the kids to try her skateboard. Mary is affiliated with the Girl Riders Organization (GRO), which hosts regular free skating clinics at skateparks across the country. Check the GRO Facebook page for details of a skate session near you.
Silverthorne Skate Park is located at 430 Rainbow Drive right next to the Silverthorne Rec Center in Summit County, Colorado. Though more land sits and waits to be added to the park, the city of Silverthorne has not put this land to use yet.
If you're interested in putting your skateboarding skills to use to make the world a better place, you MUST check out Skateistan, a nonprofit that teaches Afghani kids to skate.
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Who are we to turn down $15 drop-in tennis clinics for kids of all ages at the Keystone Tennis Club?
All of us love walking from the house to the Club through mazes of quaking aspens along fireweed-filled paths. While Gnome and explore nearby wildflowers, The Eldest and Prophet chase fuzzy green balls with their rackets.
Today, when it started sprinkling, the tennis clinic simply moved to the indoor tennis court. I'll admit to be relieved at the smooth transition.
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Father's Day was uniquely uneventful this year. Going into our second week without a dryer, the King meditated about various and sundry things while hanging out four loads of laundry. "There's something calming about having to hang everything, then wait for it to dry," he confessed later that night, comparing it to construction work and the way he'd get lost in manual labor.
Bunica brought by a delicious soup, thus sparing me the opportunity to start fires in the kitchen.
When we took a sunset stroll, the King found what every 21st century father needs most- something to climb and no good reason to refrain.
So being a father is the weight of the world and the lightness that comes with lifting it high in the hair and hearing it giggle.
It's looking down at the tracks laid by others and wondering if there isn't some heartbreaking limit in the places we can go if we agree to follow them.
It's knowing you can't fix the past but you bear a responsibility for the future.
For what you sow and how you sow it.
It's teaching your son how to love himself outside the emotional and spiritual confines of gender roles and assumptions. Discovering new paths and giving him a sense of self strong enough to sustain the adventures.
It's watching your daughters breakdance on a bridge and not feeling the need to "show" or teach them anything at all- only to watch them and learn from their joy.
It's knowing deep in your veins what Wendell Berry meant when he wrote:
We have ourselves to fear.
We burn the world to live;
Our living blights the leaf.
It's knowing all these things without knowing the sort of simple answers given by ideologies or self-help books. Learning to read the runes scribbled in spray paint. Finding yourself in what you leave behind.
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1- DIY summer wall hangings (Handmade Charlotte)
2- Animals made from tape (Carla Sonheim)
Envisioning geometric forms in animal bodies.
3- Cardboard primary color paintings (Art Bar)
Recyling cardboard to explore color.
4- DIY woven wall hangings (Honestly WTF)
5- Nature collages (Picnic)
Nature's shapes and patterns as impetus for art.
6- DIY branchlers (Home Heart Craft)
Each tree is a life and a series of stories.
7- Vegetable stones for the kitchen garden (Playfull Learning)
8- 5 step DIY seed tape (P & G Everyday)
Saving seeds from one season to the next.
9- DIY plastic bag jumprope (Childhood List)
10- DIY berry picking baskets (Captain Crafty)
For blueberry picking days.
11- Spoon oil how-to (3191 Miles Apart)
For telling stories while polishing wood together.
12- DIY twirly garden stakes (Kokstradgard)
13- DIY firestarters for camping nights (3191 Miles Apart)
Each fire begins with a circle.
14- Wooden spoon dolls (Love From Ginger)
For telling stories on long car trips.
15- Geo decorative wall hooks tutorial (Red Thread Blog)
For hanging beach bags, backpacks, and summer outdoor gear.
16- Made with magazines challenge (Journey Into Unschooling)
17- Dye shirts and pillowcases with turmeric (3191 Miles Apart)
Bring sunshine to your pillow.
18- Candied violets tutorial (alina's adventures)
19- Decoupage leaf branches (Lait Fraise)
Inspiring natural headboards for sleeping under trees.
20- Stargazing sewing cards (Kids Activities Blog)
Nothing whets the appetite better....
21- DIY popsicle stick harmonicas (Housing A Forest)
Portable music for strolls.
22- DIY family art wall (Mood Kids)
23- DIY sunprint designs (3191 Miles Apart)
Exploring sunlight and shadow.
24- Embroidered thread notebook covers (The Red Thread Blog)
Handwork for nature journal covers.
25- Branch weaving (3191 Miles Apart)
26- DIY tiny clay planters (Merry Pad)
For gifts of flowers.
27- Simple hot water bottle cover tutorial (Rachael Rabbit)
Discussing the notion of comfort together.
28- Running stitch potholders (Peapod Fabrics)
29- Writing in wool (A Life Sustained)
30- DIY cardboard animals (Small For Big)
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What began as a plan to play basketball turned into an afternoon of cloudscapes. Looking up at the clouds and each other from the vantage point of a dandelion.
The King settles into a brief observation of Cumulus mediocris.
Nothing occurs without a context. Our context was clouds- and the study of weather and sky Prophet declares her favorite to be the cumulonimbus- the one which portends a promise of thunder and lighting.
She prefers the name "thunderhead". And she asks the Eldest, again and again, to tell her about the anvil at the head of the cloud and how it predicts the direction in which the storm is moving.
For the Eldest, the clouds make it hard to concentrate on other things- things of this world, things like basketball games. I like the way he prefers not to fight the daydreaming sky, adjusting his plans as needed. He's a person who acknowledges the leverage of a cloudscape.
Gnome sits astride the elephant and shakes it with her tiny arms. The effect is one of dispersion- each wave a break too soft to crest. The scattering and dispersion creates its own forms. Hail, little Gnome, ye shaker of clouds and creator of cirrus-scapes.
Each of us has his own way of interacting with the clouds. I incline towards the clouds- hoping to somehow scoop them into my body, where their mass mobilizes them into new shapes, always the yearning for new stories.
"Tell me," I say to the Eldest, "which cloud formations strike you as the most stable and the most unstable."
"Sure," he begins to point and pontificate. Then he asks if I'm worried about the weather, or why I want to know.
"I don't care so much for the stable formations," I try to explain that the unstable clouds are the ones I want to follow, the ones which will eventually be forced by their own inner dynamics to spill into stories- some involving rain and backyard vegetable gardens, others revolving around the way pressure changes and reconfigures us as less than massive.
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Friday flew straight in the face of every well-laid plan. But it helps to explain why my "home-making" posts are far and few between.
By the time Max and Ellie got back after lunch, the girls had each invented the most hair-curling cries for their fabric baby dolls. When I asked them if I could breastfeed their babies, Prophet refused.
"They're not hungry, mom," she snapped, "They just like to cry. A LOT."
Little B. and Gnome smiled sheepishly. Then Gnome's baby began shrieking as if a small dragon had a baby toe between its long, shiny teeth. "See?" smirked Prophet, her lips compressed into a tight little line that I like to call a "smugile".
After giving myself the pronounced satisfaction of a little solitary eye-rolling, I trotted into the kitchen, where the boys were debating whether to bake banana bread or raspberry-banana bread. "Hey mom," ventured the Eldest, "I looked everywhere and I can't find my Honest Pretzels cookbook..."
"Obviously, you didn't look everywhere," I replied, keeping one ear cocked for fabric baby cries from the back of the castle.
"I did. I swear."
"But the book is clearly somewhere, so not finding the book means you failed to look everywhere because you may have looked in many places while not looking in the place known as somewhere- which is, in fact, a place BECAUSE...." I raised my voice and caught my breath, "your book still exists as a form or familiar recognizable physical MATTER."
"Mom doesn't like to help me find things," the Eldest said in an aside to Ellie. "She thinks I should find things for myself." Ellie nodded. The boys looked amused.
They shrugged in unison as I set off (rather huffily) in search of the Eldest's cookbook. Twenty minutes later, with "somewhere" feeling more and more like elsewhere, I happened upon a gigantic cockroach, spread on his back, legs curled towards the ceiling. Since he was obviously deceased, I did the only thing that made sense given the circumstances, namely, selected a swatch of linen from the fabric bin and mounted Sir Eustace into a frame for the dining room wall.
As I hammered a nail into the wall to display our new family friend, Ellie saw it and started laughing. He loved Sir Eustace. In turn, I discovered that Sir Eustace had minimized the cost of admitting I couldn't find the cookbook either- and maybe "somewhere" was actually "nowhere", immaterial.
The Eldest just grinned and said, "That's cool, mom," when I passed over a printed recipe for banana-raspberry bread.
"Actually," I wanted to say, "Cool is your non-shaming response to my huffiness". But I didn't say it. Maybe a residue of huffiness lingered.
As the Eldest prepared his ingredients and Ellie warmed the oven, I decided to make a snack for the crying baby dolls and the five uber-cool kids in the castle. "I'm going to make some microwave popcorn," I said, hoping it sounded official. Ellie watched as I put a fabric napkin under the popcorn bag and set the timer.
"Why'd you put that napkin in there?" Ellie asked.
"Because the spinny-dish-thingamabob is broken and the popcorn will burn on the bottom if I don't put something under it and we don't really have paper napkins..."
"Only for guests," appended the Eldest, as he mashed bananas with the meat-grinder.
I set the timer for the minimum popping time and prepared to listen for the promised "popping intervals". It took all of forty seconds for the microwave to begin smoking furiously, filling the tiny kitchen with smoke and the familiar odor of burning. Something wasn't right. When the girls dashed into the kitchen screaming "Fire! Fire!", Ellie and the Eldest immediately demonstrated proper bomb-shelter skills by throwing themselves on the floor and covering their heads with their arms.
At this point, we torn between cracking up and dealing with the current disaster. Somehow, we managed to alternate between both fairly evenly.
Ellie found a fan in the sewing room, and set it up to blow the air away. Prophet announced the rule that "no one opens the microwave door until daddy comes him". This gave her the chance to indulge in her favorite hobby of all, namely, the enforcement of very particular, legalistic rules. I try not to worry so much about whether this rigidity will condemn her to life as a card-carrying Republican. There are other things to think about. Like the smoke.
Meanwhile, the Eldest went on baking as if nothing had happened, while Ellie theorized about the cause of the burning. "You know, it's an urban myth that aluminum blows up microwaves," he said in his most serious voice. He had the floor. "Because, actually, all it does if you put it in the microwave is make a lot of smoke- I mean, A LOT of smoke, kind of like that", he said, pointing towards the closed microwave door.
Could these kids be any cooler? I mean, here they are, juggling crisis-management, intricate baking recipes, baby dolls that cry no matter what you do to soothe them, and then babysitting a mom who can't even pop microwave popcorn without setting fires. Someone give these kids a gold medal.
Needless to say, an hour later, the kitchen still reeked of smoke but we snacked ourselves silly anyway, under the shadow of a somber Sir Eustace, the delicious taste of banana-raspberry bread in our mouths.
It was Tiffany who finally made sense of the whole event- "I like it," she said with reference to the framed Sir Eustace, adding that it made a great "sports trophy". Granted, Sir Eustace was deceased when I found him, so he was more like a roadkill trophy than a sports trophy, but roadkill trophy fails to capture the budding affection (the sentiment that led me to offer Eustace the token of a "Sir").
What Tiffany didn't know, however, was that our microwave held within it a napkin lined with metallic strips, still smoldering (eventually, charred) as a result of my kitchen shenanigans.
"Whatever," I overheard Prophet telling Little B., a sigh heavy in her voice- "I guess that's why Dad always tells Mom not to worry about doing any of that cooking."
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Scroll down for this free printable download.
The Eldest's study of the Civil War led us through the Underground Railroad earlier this week. It's a topic I love to explore because it demonstrates how the actions of a few determined, good people made a difference in the lives of those African-Americans who ran from slavery.
People trying to escape slavery could not afford to ask most Americans how to get North. Asking directions in a society that held no laws to protect slaves was a risk that usually led to getting caught. The man or woman on the run cannot rely on the friendliness of common folks. Instead, the slaves fleeing towards freedom devised clues and secret codes to help them find the direction of "North" on their journey.
One clue was that moss tends to grow on the North side of trees. So, in long excursions through wooded areas, they could look to the trees to determine their direction.
Out in the fields and plains, however, there were few trees to consult. In treeless areas, these brave individuals consulted the skies. They knew that migrating birds flew north in the summer- so they followed the large groups of birds heading north. They also knew of a star called the "North Star", frequently called "Polaris" in astronomy books and charts.
Unlike other stars, the North Star never changes position. It always points to the north. If they could find a way to remember how it pointed North, then they could use the North Star as a guide in unwooded areas.
An easy way to remember the North Star's location was by looking for the "drinking gourd". Since many used hollowed-out gourds to dip and drink water, the Big Dipper resembled a drinking gourd to them. Two stars on the edge of the gourd always point to the North Star. By finding the “drinking gourd” in the sky, people traveling at night could always find the North Star.
Escaping slaves like Harriet Tubman, James Pennington, and Josiah Henson probably followed the Drinking Gourd to freedom. The song "Follow the Drinking Gourd" helped keep the memories and instructions of how to follow the invisible and very secret Underground Railroad alive for slaves in the South. The topic was such a neat one that the Eldest played the song on the pinao as I sang the lyrics in a pajama-attired evening performance for all. Then we set out to seek the Drinking Gourd itself on the front lawn. Even Gnome spotted the North Star in the gourd!
Drinking Gourd sheet music (PDF)
Follow the Drinking Gourd (PDF)
FIND THE DRINKING GOURD ACTIVITY To find the North Star, begin by looking for the Big Dipper constellation. Use the two small stars that form the edge of the cup away from the handle. Follow the line these two stars create to find the North Star.
I like to imagine that someday, far in the future, the kids will be stargazing as their thoughts inevitably return to the many African-Americans who dared follow the drinking gourd in the hopes of finding freedom from the injustice and horror of slavery. These are the stories in the stars- if we only agree to see them.
ADDITIONAL RESOURCES
Follow the Drinking Gourd, a website about the history of the song and motif
Follow the Drinking Gourd video sing-along (Sing An American Story)
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Foraging Games for Kids Handout (PDF)
The weather is too perfect to stay inside. Here's a little something I made (with proper attributions within) to give you another good reason for lingering outdoors this week....
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Our bamboo bean teepee with seeds planted just a week ago with Bill's help.
The bean sprouts curl their way into a winding adulthood- one in which they will be judged for their ability to produce food. It's hard to under-emphasize the thrill of fruiting. Hard to temper my love for the way a seed leads us to the dinner table. Hard to imagine and cultivate an ethic of beauty and wonder completely devoid of practical considerations.
So I steal a few secret minutes while weeding this morning to acknowledge my admiration for the producers of food. And I hope no one says, "Hey mom, what are you thinking about?"
Marigolds growing around the tomato plants, per Mary's aphid-free suggestion.
The Eldests' heirloom Brandywines.
We celebrated yesterday's rain for the way it darkened the soil and replenished our rain barrel. Today, the Brandywine's stalks are covered in a thick coat of white hairs- I imagined the hairs as a fur coat when last night's temperatures dropped and the wind released loose pink and scarlet rose petals, a pattern of fallen skirts.
While planting cucumbers last weekend, the Eldest warned that cucumbers should not be planted close together lest they attack one another and "keep each other small". I laughed and inquired as to his source. He couldn't quite recall if it had been an almanac or a gardening book. So we planted our cucumbers across the garden from one another. Because, as I explained to the King, "Some boys are territorial and require ridiculous accomodations to their insecure egos".
The King looked as if he either A) understood or B) remained baffled. The thing about the King is you never can tell. His "I get it" expression is almost identical to his "I'm lost" expression.
The Eldest improvised a cucumber cage from twine and bamboo (see rear of photo).
Cucumbers do not cross-pollinate other vining plants. While you don't want crops growing into each other to create a tangle of vines, misshapen or poorly tasting cucumbers because of the pollen from nearby melons, squashes or zucchini plants. Only other cucumber varieties cross-pollinate -- all are the same botanical species. Cross-pollination does not affect cucumber fruit features or qualities, but it does yield hybridized seeds.
Over the years, I've collected quite a few resources for gardening with kids. Given my brown thumbs, it's rather incredible to see how little I've learned. But I sure did curate a tremendous number of informative and useful links.... So I went back through my gardening posts and added the most helpful, useful, and educational ones- the ones that inspire, inform, and amuse about gardening with kids. Thrive and enjoy.
THE BEST OF GARDENING WITH KIDS
Pre-school gardening club weekly activities plan (Little Green Fingers)
Preparing for our brown thumb garden (alina's adventures)
Is it garden bounty or garden booty? (alina's adventures)
Heeding the summons of spring (alina's adventures)
The hunt for the perfect compost (alina's adventures)
Cucumbers everywhere (alina's adventures)
Planting poppies (alina's adventures)
The Eldest starts his heirloom seeds (alina's adventures)
The surprise that conquered coxsackie (alina's adventures)
Making scarecrows (alina's adventures)
Getting your garden journal and notebook ready (alina's adventures)
Flower gardening with kids (alina's adventures)
Gardening at night (alina's adventures)
The magical garden of Maria Barnes (alina's adventures)
Gardens and good germs (alina's adventures)
Getting my hands dirty (alina's adventures)
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After last week's spittlebug surprise, we found ourselves thinking, "Why note draw some spittlebugs- spittling- on a leaf?"
I provided a model and some watercolor pencils, along with a few leaves cut from used paper bags.
Prophet provided an inspiring variation, with lovely leaf veining.
The Eldest excelled in offering a blueprint.
Gnome and Little B. chose to explore their talents in a different fashion. They decided to hold a spitting content in honor of the "spitting bugs". Fortunately, there is only so much saliva one can spit across a room before insatiable thist kicks in and distracts you from the game.
I never found who won the spitting bug contest. Perhaps it is just as well.
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Little B.'s free face painting from Homegrown Alabama.
I love Homegrown Alabama. The people are as locally-fresh and unfabricated as the veggies, cheeses, and craftmanship we find there.
The Eldest didn't shy away from face painting.
A few weeks ago, we went straight from ballet to the Homegrown Alabama market on the UA campus (located on the front lawn of our church). Prophet couldn't resist pointing out that we hadn't "been to church in years", by which I think she meant weeks.
While the Eldest hunted down tomatoes, Gnome, Prophet, and Little B. hung out in the children's area in the hopes of getting as many animals painted on their faces and hands as time would permit.
I discovered a delicious new goat cheese, purchased a Left Hand soap gift for Bill's super-late birthday present, scored another bottle of Hewett's honey, and simply enjoyed being able to touch and sample local creations while the little people were otherwise occupied.
Little B. is upset that I agree to take a picture of Prophet as well.
Then there were the strawberries....
Alabama homegrown strawberries for the taste test.
Originally, I purchased the strawberries to toss with the hearty arugula from Snow Bend's farm, but my salad plans fell apart upon our return to the castle. You see, the kids decided the weather was perfect for the succulent sweetnesss, as indicated by their boisterous parade bringing grocery-store strawberries into the backyard.
"Why not turn this into a contest?" I inquired. "Let's pit homegrown strawberries against those of Winn-Dixie. The winner receives the Coryell Castle Seal of Approval."
More cheers and merry-making, a consensus to taste-test had been established.
The results of the taste conclusively determined that the homegrown strawberries tasted better- "more tart and tangy"- than the grocery store strawberries.
In less than five minutes, two bowls of strawberries had disappeared from the planet known to its inhabitants as Earth. Alas, my arugula-strawberry salad with goat cheese will have to wait until next week- next Thursday, to be precise.
Officially, in the overly-concise language of nonprofit mission statements:
"Homegrown Alabama is a student-led group at the University of Alabama that seeks to educate students about the value of local produce, as well as to foster partnerships between local farmers and the University of Alabama".
You can visit the Homegrown Alabama Farmers Market at the Canterbury Episcopal Chapel lawn every Thursday, April 17- October 23 from 3:00–6:00 p.m. It's a lovely segue between school and dinner- a lovely way to fill in the blanks of what should be brought to table.
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Cora Millay and her three daughters lived in the Coffin House in Newburyport, a Maine town that sidled up to the waters of the Merrimac River. It was a house in which every one of its women turned and churned poems.
Reading Nancy Milford's biography of poet Edna St. Vincent Millay lit an image, perhaps even an association, in my mind, a line between two dots that harbors at least one story or poem. It is a relationship between a flower and what a pen does to a blank sheet of paper.
Narcissus poeticus (Poet's Daffodil, Nargis, Pheasant's Eye, Findern Flower, and Pinkster Lily) was one of the first daffodils to be cultivated, and is frequently identified as the narcissus of ancient times—often associated with the Greek legend of Narcissus. Linnaeus, who gave the flower its name, might have done so because he believed it was the one that inspired the tale of Narcissus, handed down by poets since ancient times.
In her childhood journals, Edna describes the yard being "infinite" with the flowers of Narcissus poeticus. Given the intoxicating fragrance of its bloom, the possible metaphors abound, especially once you learn that the Poet's daffodil, like all narcissi, is poisonous when eaten. Unlike other narcissi, however, this flower is extremely dangerous to consume- and even to keep. The scent is powerful enough that it can cause headache and vomiting if a large quantity is kept in a closed room.
Do something beautiful with that fact. Here's a handout I created for the Eldest this morning.
The stories in a Poet's daffodil (PDF)
Free handout describing Narcissus poeticus in history, myth, and legend.
JOURNAL PROMPT: Poet Edna St. Vincent Millay credits the poet’s daffodil with bringing poetry to her childhood days. Write a poem or a letter adopting Edna’s childhood perspective where she explains why the daffodils covering her front yard exposed or elicited poetry. Consider using the sonnet form for your poem, since this was one of the poetic forms in which Millay excelled.
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After parking outside the Dublin Arts Council, we took a moment to savor the view. Then we decided to go ahead and hunt for the first geocache, a riverbox with an uncanny name, D'art's No Litter Cat Box, one that deserved further investigation.
For those unfamiliar with riverboxes, the Dublin Arts Center sponsors a series of geocaches called Riverboxes, all of which are created by local artists or artisans. You can download a Riverbox Passport and guide for free online.
The Eldest survyed the base of a statue on the front lawn of the Dublin Arts Center. He held the printouts which included only descriptive clues (rather than GPS coordinates) to the riverbox.
Once we got within ten feet of the cache, we were alerted to its hiding spot by the simultaneous chirp of three children- "Found it!" The riverbox was filled with swag and goodies. We left our names and logged it in the Coryell Castle Geocaching Logbook.
Upon entering the Dublin Arts Center, we discovered a large, golden tabby cat curled atop a desk near the front door. For a few moments, no one else appeared- it was just us and the cat. Gnome wasted no time in sneaking a pet.
Soon, a friendly lady appeared to introduce us to D'art, the gallery cat, the namesake of the riverbox we had just discovered. The ladies offered supplications and thanks for the swag. Meanwhile, the Eldest had wandered into the art gallery. We followed suit.
In addition to the wood art exhibit, there was a funky-looking piano in the center of the room. First they gawked at it.
Then they rocked it.
Because a funky blue-polka dot piano is only yours for the playing once in life. And who would you be to refuse it?
We set out down the hill behind the Arts Center in search of our second riverbox, Riverbox of the Sun. The littlest ones took the lead.
Bunicu stops to scout out a stump.
Inside the Riverbox of the Sun, we found a collection of painted rocks and pebbles, the sort of swag that hangs heavy in the pocket. Prophet counted the pebbles before announcing that each of us could only take one so that a total of twelve pebbles would remain.
As the Eldest and I did the dull work of logging and noting, other members of the caravan argued the case for running down the rest of the hill to the bank of swollen Scioto River.
Bunicu apparently spotted a few geese across the way, and the King noted a geocache located on the uninhabitable 10 foot island plumb center of the river. "It would only take a minute to swim across and log it......" observed the King.
Fortunately, everyone got distracted by the presence of an eerie building out back- the kind of building that ached to tell us a good, old-fashioned ghost story. Possibly the dwelling of the Scioto River rambler, a ghost known to travel with a hobo stick and knotted kerchief? If not a ghost, then at least an excellent creative writing prompt for the Eldest and his journal.
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It took our trip to Ohio to make it clear that the days of shooting hoops have officially begun. The Eldest wanted nothing more than a basketball to play on the courts nearby.
His face lit up like an Alabama yard during Christmas when the King walked into the house with a blue and black tucked under his arm.
Shooting has become second-hand- a way to think through things, a way to do something with his hands that isn't so obviously stimming. Best of all, a way to enter any conversation in any city in any part of town that has a orange hoop and a little concrete.
Nowadays, while the girls dance ballet at Riverwood Classical School, the Eldest shoots hoops. I tried to join the four boys alongside Max this week. They were playing a game called Knockout.
I got knocked out first.
Perhaps excited by the latest craze to hit the castle, Prophet has started working on her dribbling as well.
"Let's stop somewhere with a hoop," a refrain more frequently heard during our weekly spring picnics.
I never played basketball when I was growing up. Maybe I tried it once in gym class, but it didn't catch my interest. That said, I love watching the Eldest dribble and shoot from the front window of the house.
And I love the lingering possibility that one day, I, too might find myself shooting hoops in the front yard. Just because it seemed like the right kind of day.
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Reading memoirs has the unexpected effect of adding new games to our repertoire. I discovered the game of Ergo in Jeanentte Walls' memoirs, The Glass Castle. It was a game Walls' father invented to play with his kids. All you need is a few players and the ability to communicate.
The word "ergo" means "therefore". I think therefore I am, promised Descartes. But what conclusions- what "therefore"- can we draw from limited information? At what point does a conclusion become an opinion rather than a statement of fact? Playing Ergo explores this dichotomy and encourages players to formulate their own critical thinking strategies.
HOW TO PLAY
To play the Ergo game, someone makes two statements of fact. Each player then has to answer a question related to these two statements of fact. If the answer doesn't follow from the statements, the player must say, "Insufficient evidence to draw a conclusion" and then explain why this is the case.
Here's a few examples that came to mind when the hamsters in my head hopped on their wheels and wouldn't stop spinning this morning.
Statement 1: Pigs and human beings are the only animals that can get a sunburn.
Statement 2: Some humans eat pigs for breakfast in the form of bacon.
Questions: Do human beings and pigs have the same form of pigment in their skin? (Insufficient evidence to draw a conclusion. We can speculate this as a possibility, but nothing in the two statements discusses what causes sunburn in pigs or humans.) Does the word "pigment" come from the word "pig"? (Insufficient evidence to draw a conclusion. The statements make no reference to pigment.)
If perchance you do play this game with your family or friends, I'd love to hear some of the statements and questions you formulate.
[Addendum: There's also a card game called "Ergo" in which you seek to prove your own existence while disproving the existence of other players. I need to remember to add it to our wishlists. Family, here's one of those "good gifts" that the entire family would enjoy.]
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There they are- the King, Gnome, Prophet, and Eldest, sitting in the pews of the Abbey Theatre of Dublin, Ohio.
The whole thing was my idea, of course. We went to watch a show billed "Toddler Theatre". The name evoked images of costumed creatures singing and dancing, a play especially crafted for toddlers, an introduction to the fascinating world of theatre, a world well-loved by myself and the King.
But Gnome and Prophet were neither amused nor intrigued by the interactive toddler dancing and music. They watched with all the curiosity of spectators.
"You two look like intellectual snobs," I parrotted in my best Katherine Hepburn voice.
Performer Marlene Metz played children’s music on her guitar and sang like a happy mermaid.
Marlene was joined onstage by Ladybug Girl, one of Prophet's favorite characters. I thought this might bring the snobs from their seats.
Prophet quickly informed me, however, that "the Ladybug Girl was not a real one", merely a "pretend version" paid to trick gullible toddlers.
Would you believe it if I told you that the ladies didn't budge from their seats for a second? It was the Eldest who saved the day. Because if anyone in that theatre was singing every single song and clapping right along, inserting his own cheers and "hoorays", it was our 10-year-old boy, the same boy who begged to go down and shake hands with Ladybug Girl, the only child above the age of six on the premises.
If it weren't for the Eldest, our excursion would have been a bust. Instead, it was an excuse for maniacal laughter when we jumped back in the spaceship and started back towards Bunicu's place. At the first stoplight, the Eldest announced, "Boy, that sure was FUN!". Then he added, "We should do that again sometime," as Prophet and Gnome glared ominously in his direction.
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The days of bugs and fuzzy wuzzy worms are upon us. As I sit in the garden, seeking out small weeds, staking tiny tomato sprouts, some of which might yet be tender for the wider world of Alabama dirt, the kids build houses and hotels for various insects and bugs.
Hard to say how many times I paused and looked up because a little person brought me a bug.
Eastern tent caterpillar (Malacosoma americanum)
This proud friend was discovered by M. N., who held it in her palms, the tone of her voice dropping to a whisper to describe it. It is an eastern tent caterpillar, a devourer of oak and maple leaves, a furry crawler on its way to becoming a type of snout moth.
"It is called a tent caterpillar because the larvae build a tent up in the crooks of particular trees," I try to explain. The Eldest knows all the details. He picks up where I left off.
The Eldest describes the large castle he has fashioned for a cockroach who made the mistake of showing his face in the garage. He gazes at M.N.'s caterpillar longingly.
The adult moth of the eastern tent caterpillar emerges from the caterpillar-spun cocoon about 3 weeks later. The moth is reddish-brown with two pale stripes running diagonally across each fore-wing.
Gnome wants to know when we will see the moth. I tell her that she might meet it flapping against her bedroom window one night. Because moths are butterflies that prefer to play in the dark- butterflies that don't like the light.
"Okay mommy," Gnome smiles, nods, chews on a leaf. Our eyes meet for a brief, beautiful moment. Her expression unfurls into something light an expansive.
"You know what, mommy?" she asks.
"I know what you tell me."
"Maybe I can meet the moth on the outside of my window......"
"Hmmmm.... maybe so, Gnome."
"Because I AM a moth, too! I am a butterfly that likes to play at night!"
"So am I," I confess to this little kindred spirit standing before me barefoot, chewing on what I can only hope is a violet leaf. And so we are.
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Spring winds brought down the last of the white flowering dogwood blooms this week. It didn't take long for the girls to notice the wild and beautiful shower of white petals basting the front lawn. It didn't take long for them to find a reason to revel in it.
Prophet droped her watering can and raced to catch "snowflakes" tumbling from the dogwood. Gnome scooped up handfuls and scattered the petals over her "pony's secret path". Far be it from me to point out that a path strewn with flower petals won't stay secret for long.
Wherever you are, I hope you are finding time to race across the grass and catch a face-full of falling flower petals.
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We returned from our weeklong trip to Ohio to discover spring in full bloom all over the backyard. So I dug into the wild matters at hand. Obviously, the bags have yet to be unpacked and the fridge is still rather empty...
Yet, somehow, the important things- the ones that matter most in the grand scheme of things- got done. For example, the garden soil has been tilled and a few tomatoes were transplanted. All that indoor nonsense can wait for the next spring rain.
We admired the sinews of the soil under rocks and broken clay pots. The Eldest chortled with glee at every single earthworm uncovered.
The uncanny extent to which all the kids were repulsed by the white grub led to wonder whether the word "grub" itself is somehow disgusting. Or whether it suggests (all too readily, perhaps) the possibility of a crispy grub snack.
The Eldest consults his notes concerning the personal needs of his various seeds.
We decided to make garden paths using recycled tornado-tumbled trees turned into wood chips by the Friends of Hurricane Creek's Creekkeeper. As you can see, the fun is only half-finished.
It makes so much sense to use local wood for our gardening needs rather than pour money into Home Depot to purchase mulch and woodchips covered in non-native biota that will probably disrupt local ecologies and food webs.
Prophet washes her hands under the rain barrel spout.
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Yesterday's annual Hurricane Creek clean-up featured a wonderful learning opportunity for creekophiles young and old. Thanks to the University of Alabama Natural History Museum, the girls and I were able to learn how to determine stream health by surveying aquatic macroinvertebrates.
Our benthic "macro" friends.
Gnome expresses her opinions about how macros might taste.
Recent rains left the water unusally high- where the creek normally displayed riffles, we discovered mostly roars. Amanda showed us how to collect the water from the stream and use the macro key to identify the critters.
Peering through the portable microscope to view identify local macro life is like opening your eyes to a whole new world. I was so enchanted by what I saw that I couldn't resist running back up the hill to share it with older and wiser members of our group.
Can you see the friend we spotted in the lower right hand quadrant of the view? Identification is half the fun- everyone has their own opinions and underlying reasons. Amanda thought the macro friend resembled a type of beetle larvae. Jim erred on the side of the fly fisherman's ideal- "I think it looks like a caddisfly larvae," he said.
My heart skipped a beat.
Stanley Park, Jr. surveys the macro scene.
Sharing the snapshot of stream life with Stanley Park Jr., the son of the late Stanley Park who left this land with the Trust for Public Land for the purpose of a public nature reserve, was more wonderful than I can verbalize. Something timeless permeated the scene.
The late Stanley Park, Sr., in a photo shared by his daughter, Mary Angelynn Fisher.
I imagined his father's spirit watching the microscope move from the hands of tiny children to the aging hands of his son on the banks of the beloved creek.
Fred Fisher, son-in-law of Stanley Senior, tries to determine which macro we might be seeing.
Standing there together, surrounded by the blooms of native azaleas, the voice of the Hurricane Creekkeeper mingling the play sounds of the kids, softened by the rushing of the water over the rocks, only a run-on sentence can convey the way in which our actions and awe felt like a tribute to the late Stanley Park, Sr.
I am so grateful to have met Fred, Maryangelynn, and Stanley Junior (not to mention all the other friends of Hurricane Creek who teach me so much about our local treasure)- so honored to hear these stories along the banks of a southern stream, stories which deserve to be told and retold as the future of highways and pavement strangles the delightful whispers of our natural world.
To learn more about the local history of Hurricane Creek, visit the Friends of Hurricane Creek's website and take some time to explore the memories.
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The castle overflows with wooden blocks- blocks of every color and size, mismatched, scattered, carefully set up to designate the boundaries of imaginary worlds.
"His name is BUM-pee," says Gnome, in my first introduction to the dinosaur that lives near her village.
"What's it like to know a dinosaur?" I wonder aloud.
Gnome cocks her head to one side and nods, as if agreeing with something I almost said. But not quite.
"BUM-pee, he stay there," she points to a small wooden square, resembling a fence, possibly a small prison. "Dat because he try to mess up my house- and all the house." Judging by her expression, Gnome has never been more certain of anything in her life.
Cleaning up is the hard part. How to clean up when it requires us to destroy a unique and precious world every time? Gnome and her blocks, always a story.
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We set out for a visit to Hurricane Creek Park, just off the Highway 216 bridge between Cottondale and Peterson. Rather than taking the awesome new PARA trails, we strolled along the stream using the old Eagle Scout trail. What we found was the commencement address of spring, sparing none of our senses.
A few years ago, a little bird named Hayes told us of the clay we could find along the banks of Hurricane Creek- a white-gray beautiful clay. Sure enough, the clay seeped from the dirt in the banks. I only wish I'd brought a bucket to collect it....
Our kids ranged in ages from 3 to 10- the youngest ones wore their own backpacks for the occasion. The unplanned presence of Pinka provided us with a four-legged mammal's perspective on the journey.
"If a rainstorm overtook you, which rocks would you use for shelter?", I asked at one point, remembering the old legends about Native Americans once find sacred spaces along the creek.
We hiked along, observing ferns, tiny buds, lichen, and any flowerings in the making.
The little ones stopped to dam and ford a slim tributary- if a slender sliver of water flowing down the side of a hill can even be called a tributary. They could have lingered for hours, pressing sticks into the miniature waterfalls and watching leaves make their way over the "rapids".
Prophet watches her friends clamber over creekside rocks.
Creekside portraits abound.
The Eldest mistook the canebrake (or "hair cane") for bamboo. Fortunately, Amy quickly corrected him.
Resting along a bench donated by the Friends of Hurricane Creek.
Amy and I both paused to press our cheeks against the cold, mossy rocks, reminiscing about times in our pasts when only the cold, hard feel of a stone relieved the unbearable Alabama summer heat.
Gnome explains why she wants to eat something soon- and why eating acorns is something to which squirrels and Gnomes are inclined.
E. filled the sample jar with creek water.
Before we knew it, the grumble in our bellies meant water-testing time had officially arrived. Alas, we started testing without reading the instructions prior to our field tests. This means we learned much more about the importance of sampling methods than the actual water quality of the creek.
For instance, Amy found the oxygenation results rather hard to believe. When we sat down in the grass to review the how-to guide, we quickly understood that we had made the mistake of valuing the field sample itself over the rules of collection. "Isn't it better that we learn this the hard way so we can use our mistakes to better teach others?" Amy asked. It seemed to me just the right way to look at things.
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Weekends at the Coryell Castle have a tendency to develop in unexpected ways. This past weekend, the King and the Eldest spent a Saturday building a "wren house" from tornado-fallen wood found along Hurricane Creek. It happened because of a book....
Meanwhile, the girls and I colored the "Coryell Castle" sign for the garden gate. The King cut it from found wood last year, but it languished in the garage, unpainted, until the chirps of a coming spring brought it to our attention.
"Our house is really small- it's not like other castles," observed Prophet, as she washed a paintbrush in water she'd procured from the rain barrel.
"That's because all the other castles are way too big," I said (a little too smug). "One day, we humans will be remembered only for our ruins- and the ruin we made of this beautiful planet."
Prophet giggled and leaned against Gnome. "Mommy is in a serious mood," she whispered.
Now, after having built the birdhouse and painted the Coryell Castle sign, the King and I sit watching the girls swing.
Gnome shows off her new ability to propel herself by pumping through the air; she throws her head back and closes her eyes for emphasis. We are charmed.
“She would have made a good Wren,” I say to the King, a reference to the original name we had planned for yonder tiny-swing-thing. He agrees.
Why did we name her M---- rather than Wren? Neither remembers.
The clouds lay like a poisonous white snakeskin over the sky. I want to peel them back and find the proper name for this strange planet-place in which we find (and lose) ourselves on a daily basis.
Prophet settles onto the swing nearest Gnome. Suddenly, Gnome's two pigtales reveal their asymmetry, she lays her head to the side, crumples her face into a cry- “No, Prophet, go away”. Prophet tries to ignore the crescendo of wails demanding that she get off the swing.
I feel myself redden.
“Gnome, you can’t cry because someone sits next to you or breathes near you!”, I snap. I'm surprised by how much this flusters me.
“Next thing you know, you’ll become one of those nationalists!" I practically spit out that last word as if it were an expletive.
"Look," I say, trying to impose some calm on my own outrage, "If you don’t like the person next to you, then it's YOUR job to get up and move. You don’t have a right to remove them or make them leave....” The Alabama Immigration legislation flashes through my mind, alongside sepia-toned photos of Ellis Island and Japanese internment camps. Gnome stops complaining; the girls swing as if their lives depended on feeling their toes touch the clouds.
The King enters my field of vision, picking up trash from the lawn, a large smile on his beardless face. “Did you just call her a nationalist?” he laughs.
“Yes,” I admit. I am that woman in the check-out line who fears that her children will find anything of value in flags, nation-states, and patriotisms. The excuses we imagine for mass killings can never be sacred to me. Fortunately, the King takes a more nuanced view of fences, gates, and the history of the nation-state.
If it weren't for the subtle poetries of living in the deep South, this girl would be roaming the continents with her backpack, eyes peeled for caravans or other contingencies. I wonder sometimes if my rambling blood courses through the kids' veins- how and when and if they will recognize it, what symptoms will lead them to give it a name.... The mysteries of life disguise themselves in rapture.
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The little people have been informing me more frequently of the gnome homes nestled in trees or stumps. Something about spring seems to imply the activity of gnomes and other magical beings. Even Pinka seems to be conversing with invisible flower fairies and other kinds of non-science-based life.
"Don't ruin the gnome home!", I hear Prophet warn. Indeed, the Irish and Welsh folktales collected through the 1800's by WB Yeats and William Wirt Sikes included warnings to humans who meddle in the magical rythms of other worlds. Like the Grimm brothers, Yeats and Sikes spent time traveling the countryside and recording the stories passed on through oral tradition. They gathered tales of beings that operated in the shadows- beings that were not evil or menancing so much as prone to trickery. Those who managed to outwit the denizens of the Fairy Kingdom would have fortune and riches beyond their wildest imaginings.
I love stories and imaginings about gnomes, and the way they line the border to that place that W.B. Yeats called "Fairyland". As Yeats made clear, Fairyland is a world of paradox and mystery where none of the earthly rules apply. It is a place between heaven and earth, a sojourn and respite for lost souls, guarded by the fairies. Yeats' poetic tributes to Fairyland are also tributes to the fascinating natural world and the realm of the human imagination.
A FEW GNOME STORIES AND IMAGININGS
Mr. Viktor the Garden Gnome, a story by Essie L., 9 years of age
Garden and wood gnomes (The Fairy Chronicles)
"Gunnar and the giant" (Gnome Home)
A nisse gnome letterbox (alina's adventures)
"The Venetian Gnome" (Fairy Tale Channel)
"The Gnome", a German fairy tale collected by Grimm brothers
"A brief history of garden gnomes" (Mental Floss)
Our adventures with Gilgamesh the gnome (alina's adventures)
An outdoor feast for fairies and gnomes (alina's adventures)
A gnome journal theme (alina's adventures)
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During all the wild craze concerning two inches of snow, I decided to steal some quiet moments while the King took the kids on a snow romp.
The second hand reports from the Eldest emphasized the romping-ness of the affair. Little B. explained that her clothes were "too big" for the slide, and she got stuck.
But the secondhand reports relayed by Prophet emphasized the sibling rivarly that can poke out its head even in the middle of the woods, mid-adventure.
Upon discovering the secret bench in the woods, the King wanted to get a photo. But Little B. said Gnome could not be in the photo- that she "didn't want" to be on a bench with Gnome. The King was confused because there hadn't been any fights or spats between the two, and Gnome was being her usual feisty, three-year-old self.
"I'm going to take a picture and everybody can be in it," he told Little B. "If you don't want to be in the photo, you don't have to sit on the bench," he added, "but I'm not going to tell some people they can't be in it."
Little B. sulked and thought it over. She finally decided she wanted to be in the photo. However, she would only be in it if she could turn her back towards the Gnome. So the King snapped the first shot.
"Do you guys want to trade places on the bench?" asked the King, hoping it might soothe ruffled feathers. Little B. did not want to trade places- she stayed put. Gnome and Prophet switched.
When Prophet reported the bench fiasco to me, I went to find Little B. and pulled her into my lap. It seemed important for her to hear what Prophet was saying, to be part of the discussion in an attempt to understand her feelings. Little B. refused to explain why she didn't want Gnome to sit next to her on the bench. At one point, she said it was because she "didn't like" Gnome.
"But you play with Gnome- just the two of you- all the time," I pointed out. "And you hug her and say how much you love to play with her...."
Little B. had a hard time finding words to express her resentment of Gnome. I wanted to validate her feelings while helping her to understand why they might be hurtful and unworthy of her focused attention. So I explained to the three girls that it is the most natural thing in the world to feel frustrated and resentful of siblings after going from being an only child to being part of a troupe of kids within a family.
"Imagine if you went from being the baby to being one among four," I began. "Until four months ago, Little B. was the baby- she got all the attention the littlest member of the family receives. But she was also the oldest, with all the privileges of being the oldest. Don't you think that sometimes it is hard to explain why being a middle child can be frustrating?"
Prophet nodded. Little B. curled her legs in my lap. I could tell that Prophet's empathy engine was working hard; she began to explain why Little B. might be "missing" getting "all the attention the way you get when you are the only one". Prophet's thoughtfulness really came out, however, when she gave the following example:
"My favorite time with Mommy is when she takes me somewhere with just me and her. We have fun and no one is whining or crying. It makes me feel like Mommy is my best friend when I get to be alone with her."
As Little B. puts on a brave face and tries to sort through all the challenging feelings and emotions coming her way, my best hope is that her siblings will encourage her rather than resenting her in return. Sibling rivalry is one of life's greatest challenges. Learning to communicate one's secret resentments on this front can equip you to handle difficult conversations and situations. My prayers for Little B. and the girls are the beginning to every day.
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We started with colored pencils, paper, regular old pencil, and the four basic shapes. The sketchbook activity required us to draw the four basic shapes and then add a vanishing point somewhere between them. The vanishing point is the point at which all imaginary lines of perspective converge. The purpose of drawing in perspective is to create the illusion of depth, and to enrich the form of your subject.
Connecting the shapes to the vanishing point required us to draw the shortest possible line from each of the corners to the vanishing point. You don't really have to draw a line from point farthest from the vanishing point on each letter back to the vanishing point. It's a superluous line- one that reduces the illusion.
Somehow, inspired by our sketchbook activity, we decided to play around with 3-D words and then add amusing items near the vanishing point. The Eldest did the letterblocking and coloring, while I messed around with graphics and possible puns.
"Hey," says me, "Why don't we just print out several sheets with the word LOVE in some neat font and get the girls to color with us?"
"Yeah," says he, "let's do it."
"Um-hmmmm," says me, looking for a font.
"Maybe," says he, "there's a little more to it. Like a project or a gift or.... a valentine?"
Sure enough. We colored the words and added another dimension. Then we searched through old photo bins for pictures we could cut and paste just beneath the focal point. The photos we chose were the ones that made us laugh- which means most of the Eldest's came from his toddler years.
It was so fun and simple. You can download the two blank pages with just the word "love" in cool fonts below. And by all means have a merry, giggle-filled blast.
3D love valentines (PDF)
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Making notes the castle geocaching log, which we keep in the glovebox for easy access.
Showing the king the shrivelled cache log to which our insignia was added.
Note that, to the rear, the eldest is holding up the tiny, excavated log that was dangling from a branch in the tree. Micro cache, indeed.
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In learning about shapes, I've found it easier to relate the shapes we draw to the shapes we find in nature. Every shape exists in perfect form somewhere in your backyard....
Yesterday, we talked about OVALS, the shape that looks like a stretched circle. And we built our own insect friends from circles and ovals snipped from magazines.
Of course, I built bugs alongside the kids...
Gnome raved about her "buggies".
The Eldest would not allow himself to be limited to common shapes.
If he perceived a butterfly, a butterfly appeared.
I loved how he cut stripes for the back of one beetle.
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So begins the day's play.....
Two simple games (PDF)
I found the games- pebble tag and triangle house- in a international family book from the 1930's. Since the pages were frayed and filled with misspellings, I did a little copywork and added the games to our family play binder.
The quote from James P. Carse makes a great family play book binder cover- a subtle reminder that the games we enjoy the most don't revolve around winning but on the art of play itself.
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There's nothing like a blank activity sheet to make you realize just how creative kids can be. And there's nothing like a Sunday marked by lack of sleep to prompt the collages.
I explained that a product is the object we buy or sell- it is what commercials and billboards advertise. The source, on the other hand, is the material from which the product is made or created. An simple example- ketchup is a product made from tomatoes, which are the source. A more sophisticated example- a novel is the product and the writer is the source.
PRODUCT AND SOURCE COLLAGE ACTIVITY SHEET (PDF)
Download your own copy, close your eyes, pass over the magazines, and see what comes of it. I'll share what the castle-dwellers produced later.
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E. and the Eldest have been friends for a long time- ever since they discovered, on a random playground, that both shared an imaginary world. For a few months last year, they didn't speak- there was a rift that needed to work itself out. It was hard to see how much the Eldest missed E.
So, on Friday, when E. dropped by to play and the boys disappeared into the woods for a few hours, I wondered what they might be doing. As they ladies played outside, mixing mud and twigs, arranging the "house", I complained to my journal about the failures of modern feminism to address the growing market for silicone.
Though I heard the boys' voices, I didn't turn around until the whooping began. Lo and behold, what should I see but the Eldest and E. jumping over our expired Christmas tree, who had moved into a supine position on the lawn.
It didn't take long for Little B. and the Gnome to join the fray. It turned into what one might call a tree-jumping day.
Little B. moves to the side as the boys approach.
E. masters the art of almost flying over the tree.
When I told E. that he resembled an eagle as he jumped, E. smiled. Then the Eldest jumped. E. didn't hesitate to announce that the Eldest preferred the style of a "fallen bird".
The Prophet runs away after jumping the tree.
Sore about the tree not having received a proper burial in the forest this year, the boys struggled to remove the tree stand before finally giving up and deciding to drag it into the woods anyway, tree stand and all.
The Eldest and E. grinned big when I said the King would probably wonder where the tree stand ended up- and, being a parsimonious King, would want to recoup his financial losses.
"Well, then, we'll made it fun game of hide-and-go-tree..." quipped the Eldest, before disappearing into the woods.
So far, the King has yet to realize the tree and the tree stand are missing. I predict an evening game of hide-and-go-tree sometime in the near future...
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During our first economics lesson this morning- one involving an experiment of crayon scarcity- a little person looked out the window and screamed, "It's SNOWING!" Pandemonium ensued.
Suddenly, the room was taken over by jumping, leaping little people seeking gloves, mittens, hats, coats, and snow, snow, snow. Obviously, our exploration of scarcity would have to make way for our immediate exploration of snow (which does tend to be rather scarce in these parts).
There's something very, very funny about snow in the south.
Of course, little B. needed to try a taste...
The Gnome reminded me of how much she "loves snow".
The Eldest led the group in various tromps around the yard to observe where the snow was accumulating."These are the places we will find snowball-making materials in a few hours..." he declared.
Extensive concern was expressed over Pinka's ability to navigate the snow and find shelter from it within the yard. So the little people pushed the playhouse closer to Pinka within reach of her lead.
Then our neighbors from up the street dropped by to see if the Eldest wanted to play in the snow. And off he went, red-cheeked and bubbling.
Oh, how I love watching the plans of a day fall away in the face of joy, wonder, and surprise snow play...
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Last year, when we went to the best sledding hill near Keystone, the weather conditions were rather different. Simply put, a blizzard-like wind was blowing as we tried to sled this year.
Ratpaw covered from tip to toe to guard against the cold winds.
The King races with the sled- a wind so strong it rattles the sled in his arms.
The Prophet and the Gnome watch the King prepare his course.
The Kind describes his daring deeds to Ratpaw.
And so on it went...
Finally, the complete lack of visibility and the furor of the wind sent us home in search of hot chocolate, thick wool socks, and a fireplace.
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Making our own maps begins with envisioning the terrain of a land we know very, very well- a land that does not limit us with its physical characteristics but, rather, allows us to freely imagine its topography and markings. Or, at least, so went my thinking when I made the Gnomeland Map activity for the kids.
I found they did a better job of designing their own worlds using other maps and travel brochures as a reference (rather than looking to mine as a model). We talked about the role of a key in providing a meaning for the symbols- and we learned to narrow down the materials we included based on their frequency. For example, if Gnomeland has one swimming pool, that might not warrant adding a swimming pool symbol to the key.
The ladies enjoyed coloring my Gnomeland and then creating their own versions, for which I wrote in the words on the key. Micah's land included swarms of fairies and their fairy paraphenalia, while Milla's offered a "workshop" for Handy Manny. Go figure.
Or, do something better and go make your own version of Gnomeland. Alternately, you can print a few copies and pack it with colored pencils for your next road trip.
MAKE A MAP OF GNOMELAND (PDF)
Includes two sheets, my version of Gnomeland and a blank template.
Max's somewhat blurry version of Gnomeland.
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On the drive to Colorado, we crossed Arkansas and stuck to I-40 all the way. First came the spectacular border crossing of the Mississippi River in West Memphis. Then came Forrest City and Little Rock, followed by Conway (where we stopped to spend the night), Russellville, Clarksville, Ozark, and Fort Smith. The little people colored their maps as I chanted out local wildlife to keep on their radar.
GEOGRAPHY: Using maps as guides for questions
Using highway map to answer questions about Arkansas (PDF)
Key to highway map and lesson plan (PDF)
Make mystery picture postcards lesson plan (PDF)
Rivers and water resources lesson plan (PDF)
Rivers and counties map activity (PDF)
River boundaries key (PDF)
NATURE STUDY: The ivory-billed woodpecker
As we drove through Arkansas, I remembered having read about a Arkansas scientist's controversial ivory-billed woodpecker sighting back in 2005. A documentary film about "the God bird" sighting offered us a chance to hone our critical thinking skills- not to mention learning a little more about the fabulous ivory-billed and its close cousin, the pileated woodpecker, who lives in the woods near our Alabama yard.
Max colored the pileated woodpecker as I recapped the controversy over the sighting. Critical thinking skills were duly exercised. We explored the woodpecker's natural habitat, and debated whether climate change or human development had more to do with the woodpecker's demise. The never-fail Cornell ornithology hub offered a map listing possible encounters with ivory-billed woodpeckers since the 1940's and NOVA boasted a focused and thoughtful video on the sighting controversy.
The sad part of our ivory-billed woodpecker exploration came later- a few days later as we sat by the fireplace, watching the embers, burning scissor-scraps of remaining vacation brochures. Laying on his stomach, pencil working its way through the college-ruled lines of his journal, Max turned to me and said, "Mom, all the stuff about the woodpecker makes me sad."
"Why?" I wondered.
"Because I don't know if I want to be a scientist anymore."
Not seeing the connection, I asked him to explain.
"Well," Max began, hesitating for just a second, "That one scientist in the video could not believe in the ivory-billed sighting- and he said it was because he was a scientist. And I felt sorry for him when he said that..."
"Hmmm.... but we can't always believe things just because we prefer to believe them, Max."
"Yeah, but if being a scientist means you can't believe in fantastic things anymore, I don't want to be a scientist. I want to believe in things that make me happy- things that might even be impossible." His voice trailed off as he leaned over his paper to write again.
I tried to tell him that many scientists believe in fantastic, impossible things- that science is the poetry of the universe and life at the cellular level, that beauty need not be sacrificed to the dull standards of evidence-gathering. But I knew he wasn't really listening- his pencil never paused long enough on the page. And I knew, somehow, that his concern deserved more than a standard reply.
In retrospect, maybe I should have told him that the tension between hopeful imagination and rationalistic materialism exists in every field and career path- that this tension is a facet of every modern life more than a fact of the scientist's life. And that it is only while teaching my children that I find myself free from it....
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En route to our mountain vacation, we drove through a total of 10 states. Courtesy of the tourism bureaus in each state, the little folks and I walked away with bags of information about American history, geography, geology, economic development, and culture.
OUR TEN STATES
Missississippi
Tennessee
Arkansas
Oklahoma
Kansas
Colorado
New Mexico
Texas
Louisiana
Alabama
On the way, the King and I learned a few lessons about long road trips, teachable moments, and the importance of multiple good playlists. The take-homes:
Pee outdoors when possible.
Stopping at established restrooms involves walking through gas stations full of candy and glitter intended to seduce your kids (and you) into forking over a small chunk of change in return for some junk. Also, imagine all the germs and viruses you can avoid by just peeing in the woods with the song of a sparrow to lighten your load. So pack that toilet tissue and vow to find nature-made restrooms on your road trip. By the way, snow isn't a problem. In case you haven't noticed, kids will pee anywhere. It's their adult companions that crave the water wasted by those porcelain thrones we call toilets.
Nature journals.
Whenever we stopped at a rest area or even along a scenic piece of road, Max wandered around with his nature journal and made notes. The King provided the latitude and longitude as Max canvassed a brief area for local birds, trees, plants, grasses, and insects. Then, when we got back into the car, he flipped through his field guides and tried to identify each living thing while journaling them into a context (i.e. climate, geography, etc.).
Geocache kits.
Simple as having an iphone, a compass, and a geocaching log. If you have a signature stamp, bring it along as well. There are geocaches aplenty all over these fine United States. It makes a great excuse to pee in the woods for the more inhibited family members.
Printed maps and colored pencils.
Oh the things you can do with just a few maps and pencils. Encourage the writers to list all the towns they pass through on the map and then turn them into a narrative poem. Show little ones how to draw a blue circle to indicate a lake (and then mark them as you pass) or a red square to indicate a barn or a black dot to indicate a cow. Then let them make their own map adding what they observe along the way.
Read-aloud chapter books.
Long car trips are a great time to read that awesome book to a captive audience. Who needs illustrations when the scenery keeps catching your eye? I shared A Finder's Magic by Phillipa Pearce with the crew, while Max read chapters from the original Winne the Pooh by A. A. Milne aloud to the girls.
Water bottles.
Skip the juice boxes and other sugar-laden laxatives- water is the best possible drink for the road. It saves big folks the frustration of spills, sticky luggage, and endless restroom stops. Kids tend to drink water when they are thirsty, while they will often drink juices to satisfy hunger or a craving for sugar. Keep it simple. Milk at night and water during the day.
Apples and clementines.
Bring along washed apples and seedless clementines. The little folks like to peel their own in our family. As for the apples, what could make a better all-around snack?
Scissors, glue sticks, and white drawing paper.
Using all those fantastic resources procured at each stateside rest area or travel office, cut out pictures of landmarks or places in each state and pass them (along with glue stick and paper) to the little people to make their own state-based collages. Alternately, let them tell stories by cutting their own pictures and pasting them to white paper (reimaged as a blank storyboard). Then, when you make your next stop, tell everyone that he or she has to pick up all the paper scraps around their chair and put them in the trash bag if they wish to "get off the bus", so to speak. Consider cleaning up as a ticket (a get-out-of-van-free-card).
White cardstock and stamps.
Make your own postcards using glue sticks and travel brochure cut-outs. Let the kids write a message on their creations and then use your iphone to look up addresses. Put on a stamp and drop them off at the next post office box you see.
Good music and playlists.
There are so many ways to tie the music to the state you are visiting. For example, some cities are mentioned in songs. Travel brochures will mention which musicians hail from their state, so add a few locals to your playlists. Use the songs as segues for discussions about history and culture. Or just find a few favorite sing-alongs. We use Spotify rather than mp3s or ITunes because we can find any song in world and enjoy it without having to "own" it. You can also find lots of stories and songs for kids.
Poems and inspirations.
Find beautiful words to add to the mix when whimsy is conspicuously lacking. The little people may or may not show interest, but it will probably stir your soul just right. Keep your own journal of impressions and observations. Everything you see becomes part of the story you discover together.
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Make a map for the island of Gnomeland.
Know that both humans and gnomes inhabit this island.
Add a key.
Tell a story about the human part of Gnomeland versus the gnome part of Gnomeland.
How do the creatures treat their environment differently? Why?
What can we learn from gnomes and the way they relate to nature?
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Earlier this week, after discovering we were too early for ice skating, the kids, Angie, and I took a stroll down the fantastic Tinsel Trail along the Tuscaloosa Riverwalk. Each tree was sponsored and then decorated by different community businesses, nonprofits, or individuals.
Max found a sign that had fallen over. He quickly picked it up and staked it back in the ground. Because, in his words, "Duh, that's what boys DO, mom." I bit my lip and kept the "ideally" from coming out. One should appreciate the ideal rather than demand it. Or so I've read...
So many trees to see.... There were large, bombastic trees smothered in bows....
Angie strolled along, looking relieved that the ice-skating rink would not give her a chance to skate.
And there were many discoveries and inspirations for our own crafting plans...
1. CD ornaments painted with reindeer scenes.
2. Little yarn Dr. Seuss-ish ornaments....
3. Lovely little critters cut from pinecones and brush....
4. A gauze-wrapped snowman tree.
5. Stockings cut from burlap and decorated with paint and glitter.
6. Candycanes also cut from burlap and painted.
7. Recycled aluminum can ornaments.
8. Aluminum soda can tree people.
9. Classic glitter-dipped pinecones hung with rope.
10. Instruments and horns adding glitter to the tree.
11. Laminated sunshine photos of children at the R.I.S.E. tree.
12. A rope garland lined with bells and pieces of bandana fabric.
13. Hand-painted glass globes with black and red backgrounds.
14. A collection of colorful handprints with glitter decorations.
15. A glue-covered and glitter-dipped CD.
16. A tree covered with toys- this was B.'s "favorite".
17. An Eric Carle inspired butterfly tree-topper.
18. Monopoly money and game pieces as upcycled tree decorations.
Our vote for the wackiest, "cutest" tree- the big mouthed Bama Fan?
As we neared the end of the Trail, Milla found a fellow she deemed intriguing. B. stopped to scope him out. Before I understood what was going down, Micah joined them..
The luckiest faux gingerbread man on the block earned a kiss from three little ladies far sweeter than himself.
We headed back to the spaceship with the words from one advice-giving tree still in our minds- "Peace on earth begins at home".
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Amy brought E. and A. for a long-anticipated visit today- and the kids made the maxmimum possible rumpus. Max and E. helped me with bookmarks before heading outdoors to crush berries and make potage of the sort involving buckets, leaves, and torn twiglets.
Max and E. work on their fingerprint animals.
Max's reindeer include Rudolph, whom we now know to be a female reindeer.
SUPPLIES FOR FINGERPRINT CREATURES
white notecards
colored ink pads
tiny fingers
black smudgeproof ink pens
Thumbprint dandies.
Amy's advanced degree in fingerprinting opened broad horizons to us.
Meanwhile, as the parents and older siblings slaved away in the name of crafting,
the younger munchkins managed to create a play-fort from blankets and pillows.
Then they sat and waited for the pizza man to bring the coveted cheese sticks.
There was a combination of dissension and lounging in the ranks of the small folks.
Max's bookmark.
A.'s bookmark, densely colored.
Micah's fancy bookmark.
Milla's colors bled into one another in a lovely fashion.
B.'s gorgeous color combinations inspired us all.
Micah's camellia preservation tactic which she says E. taught her.
Then Max, B., Micah, and E. went outside to play for a little while while Amy and I sat around and chatted. Have I mentioned how nice it was to just hang out and chat with a fellow female of the friendly and funny sort?
Notice how they removed the bud petals to reveal the tops of the anthers?
It's pretty obvious why my kids love E. and A.- they are full of the sort of fun that just makes itself, without any prompting or planning.
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A Mom with A Lesson Plan really got us going this morning with her lego ornament challenge.
Her instructions for Creative Kids Lego Challenge #8: Make tree ornaments from legos. Then share a story about the ornament's past. Pretend that your ornament is very old. Create a story about how this ornament joined your family. Does it have a special spot on the tree? Has it always been loved?
I quoted the kids' renditions of their stories just below their creations. Then we submitted our "work" to the gallery.
Milla's ornamental tower.
"My fairy brought to me this tower. She sleeps in it and plays. I like to look for her hiding in it."
Micah's super-cool square ornament.
"I found this square in a box in Mommy's craft room. It was with some stuff for a little girl. When I touched it, I felt funny, like magic. So I picked it up and put it on the tree next to the baby ornament. The baby ornament likes to look at it. I think this one must be that little girl's favorite, but nobody in my house knows anything about the little girl. Maybe it's a mystery."
Max's planet ornament.
"This ornament is actually a part of a meteor that came from a planet known as Morkindabble. It's a planet made entirely from legos. Scientists have no idea how it manages to survive in the solar system, and most don't even want to admit that it exists because it's so un-scientific. Seriously, a lego planet?
But it DOES exist- and this ornament is proof. I hung it on the tree by sticking the tiny hole in the side through a branch so it looks like it is orbiting."
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Making old-fashioned ice cream floats.
Micah picks toppings as B. jots down the order.
B. and Micah discuss the business side of a banana split.
A pretend play ice cream parlor is a great way to teach little ones about the concept of economic scarcity and cost-benefit analysis.
For example, a limited number of cherries meant that Micah and B. needed to offer a special price for banana splits without cherries on top to incentivize customers to purchase the cherryless split (heaven forbid they should be forced to post a sign reading "Out of cherries!").
More ways to play around with ice cream
"Eighteen Flavors" by Shel Silverstein
"Ice Cream" by Eric Edwards (Woods Hole Museum)
"Ice Cream Cake" by Colette Hiller plus long vowels practice (BBC)
Ruff Ruffman's Ice Cream Shake (PBS)
Simple ice cream fun (Toddler Approved)
Ice cream in a baggie experiment (First Grade with Mrs. Snowden)
Paper towel roll popsicles craft (Ziggity Zoom)
Play ice cream addition (Education.com)
Ice cream sight word activity (Make Learning Fun)
The Scoop on Ice Cream Science Activity (Virginia Dept. of Education)
The Ice Cream Dream activities pack (Reader's Theatre)
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